


For You, Anything

by JacksWild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Intrigue, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post S3, some mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacksWild/pseuds/JacksWild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has had time to figure out what is most important to him, but lacks the desire to combat the issues involved. Whereas Sherlock has had time to figure out all the issues with what is most important to him, but lacks the ability to take what is given. </p><p>or</p><p>John goes on a vacation, and Sherlock has to save them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For You, Anything

**Author's Note:**

> This has not be beta'd by anyone. I do not own these characters. I love them so much. And I only wish to do right by them. If you see errors, have ideas, or what have you then please feel free to leave comments. I hope you enjoy their journey.
> 
> ALSO THIS WILL BECOME EXPLICIT AT A LATER POINT.

John woke, once again unable to distinguish the wet on his face, for tears or sweat. He rolled his eyes back a bit and brought his hand up to his face, to wipe away the remains of the dream. The groan escaping his mouth, both unintentional, and met with utter silence.  
He stuttered his eyes as the echo of gunfire, ricocheted in his ears, and the incessant ringing that always accompanied those long, fraught, nights on patrol. His dreams had been a part of his life for so long, that had it not been for the two years when Sherlock had been a part of his life, when the dreams had been so rare, that they had taken him more by surprise than anything. But now with Sherlock once again, unattainable, and with Mary both out of his life, and his child gone too- the dreams had become a regular staple of the John Watson, re-bachelor bed. Another reason he had been forced to cut back hours at the Surgery. He was just too tired, lacking the ability to focus, and though he wouldn’t admit it too anyone, he had started to go back to therapy.  
Dr. Fitzsimmons was occasionally brash, as John would admit he needed, but he was also remarkably understanding and sincere. He turned his head and looked at the clock, taking in that it was still several hours before his first appointment of the day at the A & E, but sleep was not going to be achieved again this morning. He rolled his body out of bed, and took stock of the options available. The whiskey seemed so beautiful an idea, just simple, whiskey and coffee, and be on with his day; but John Watson was sober, (whether he had to remind himself of it every morning, hour, night, and moment, he would be damned if he sank back into that hole of self disrepair.) Or he could lace up some trainers and go for a bit of a run. The groan that escaped his mouth this time was both intentional and met with the same stark silence. 

Dr. Watson entered the A & E, with 14 minutes to spare. Certainly that was a feat, as he was generally running in with a bit of jelly on his cardigan and a patient that was angry and ill. He smiled at the new receptionist, going through the mental list of what day it was and coming up with, “Ah, Darlene, good morning.” And took the corner to his hallway, counting the steps absentmindedly, as any good soldier would find themselves doing. His unlocked his office, taking a moment to leave the light off, and let the dreary sunlight from the window seep in. His coat placed on his desk, the computer turned on, a flick of the light and Sherlock. Right, everything was in it’s---  
“Sherlock.”  
John did an about face, (really it was remarkable how much of the military attributes would be forever a part of his life), and took in the figure of the man he had called a friend.  
“Watson.” John watched as Sherlock stayed still, the only tell being the almost infinitesimal tap of his finger to his thigh. He took in the body of Sherlock, as he knew he was being appraised as well. It had been how many months this time? (Who was he kidding, John knew, he always knew), 4 months, 2 weeks, and 5 days. (After all, it was how he marked each new section of sobriety.)  
“Sherlock, how, no-“ He stopped and took a breath, Dr. Fitzsimmons would be proud to hear of this moment. How he knew that he held no tells of his racing heart, how he was the only one to hear the thud-thud-thud, of blood rushing in his ears, how only his palms were sweating, but he wasn’t fidgeting to wipe them off on his trousers. He would have smiled at his list of traits so easily marked by teenage love affairs, had he not still been freshly off the meeting yesterday with the therapist, where he had finally been able to talk about Sherlock.  
“How can I help you, Sherlock?” There that sounded good, reasonable, not a bit needy nor did it have a ring of the nag on it.  
“Watson.” John waited, if there had been anything that the last 7 years had taught him, it was patience is both a virtue and an acquired trait. He turned to his desk, and made a sly glance at the clock, 8 minutes until his first appointment, which meant 3 minutes until Darlene came in and handed him the patient file. He sat down and took out several files that he had neglected to place in their rightful places at the end of the day before, shift. He was just starting to worry about the man that was in the room, yet resolutely silent, when he heard the tapping of expensive Italian loafers on the floor.  
John looked up, but while he had acknowledged that Sherlock had moved, he had rather expected the gentleman to have moved toward him, rather than away.  
“Did you wish to speak with me about something, Sherlock?” John asked. Yet again, resenting the tightness of his throat, and the squeezing of his heart. Both things that weren’t medically happening, and yet to him they felt like they would bring about his untimely death.  
“Yes. However, seeing you in good health has assuaged my concerns. Good day.” And with that Sherlock was out of the room, and the door was at once opened by Darlene.  
“Docter, I didn’t know that you had already been seeing a patient. I am sorry. Do I need to retrieve a file for you?”  
“No. However, I will be taking the rest of the day off after this first patient. I seem to have come down with a right horrible headache.” He pushed his fingers against his temple, to procure an effect.  
“Yes. Of course. I actually came in to inform you that your first appointment just called and cancelled. So if you wish I can just rearrange your other appointments.”  
“Yes. In fact, I believe I am just going to call in Doctor Murphy. She has been looking for a few shifts, and I think I am in need a holiday.”  
“No worries. In fact, I can give her a quick ring. Why don’t you go ahead and sneak out. It wouldn’t hurt for me to call other Doctors, gives them more reason to learn my name.”  
John smiled, and not for the first time, wished that he hadn’t been so bloody attracted to a particular male, as Darlene was very clearly a flirt who had eyes set on him. “Thank you, Darlene. I think I will be taking today and tomorrow off. And let it flow right into my three day weekend.”  
“For sure. Hope you feel better Doctor Watson. Have a good rest.”  
Darlene shut the door and left John to look at his room. The watery sunlight that was filtering in through the window was doing nothing to calm the feeling of inadequacy that was filling him up and chocking him from the inside out. He tapped his foot and thought about what he truly wished to do. Then it struck him. He had been in search for some time to go to Paris. It had been years, almost a decade actually since he had been there, and the last time had been only for a fly by between England and the Middle East. It seemed high time he took a look at Paris, and if he really wanted to admit it, escape into the mountains for a bit of a chill and a drink.

He took stock of all that was in his personal belongings that he would be taking. He had decided on a flight to the main land, and then a train into the heart of Paris. His hotel already booked, and the sting still ringing hollowly in his pocket book, he was starting to get a bit excited.  
He had resolutely decided to not think about Sherlock and the bloody well intriguing incident that had welcomed his morning. No, instead he had held firm to making sure that he was well adjusted and ready in a timely manner. He checked out the window of the flat and noticed that his cab had just pulled up.  
Up with his bag and his kit and he was down the stairs in a flash. 

Paris was always beautiful, he’d only been there once to be sure, but whenever the city had been in papers or magazines, he’d always found it to be incredibly erotic in the poise of the people, the commanding austere of the architecture and the blatant salute to the brickwork of the old eras. He found his hotel with astonishing ease, and took just a few moments to make sure that he was well stashed away with all of his belongings before he set out to take a casual stroll of the city, maybe ending it with a bit of gelato or melted chocolate.  
He sat back comfortably adjusting to the warmth of his bed, enjoying the soft Parisian bedding, the plush goose feather pillows, the lush colors of the bed spread, taking note that he enjoyed the deep rich purple of the bedding, and the tonal greys of the rest of the room. John marveled at the arched window that led out to the most marvelous view of the Eiffel Tower. He’d yet to take a tour of it, had decided really that it would be something on his list for the following day, if not the one after. He was more interested in the gelato that he had obtained and brought back and was currently setting next to the bed on the old oaken night table.  
The silence of the room, was both a blessing and a curse. At first he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to listen to the inevitable honeymooners that found themselves caught up in the wonder and joys that were the most romantic place in the world, but he was also aware that he was going to be burdened with the ceasely nightmares that would come and drown out the soft quiet of the night. He wasn’t looking forward to that, but even as he was thinking of the lack of sleep to welcome him, he drifted off.

_****_****_****_

Sherlock watched through the window of his hotel room, his eyes trained on the room directly down and to the left of his. The bustling street, the darkening skies, the Eiffel Tower aglow, did nothing to divert his attention from his gaze. John Watson, sleeping in a plush duvet covered bed. He felt his heart rate start to quicken and immediately started to go through the periodic table and the elements that caused water to be different than electricity, taken a shallow breath when his heart rate evened out and his arousal subsided. He tsked into the void of the room, finally recognizing that the room had long since gone dark and cold.  
He sat back on his heels, and took a ragged breath. This wasn’t how he had ever imagined seeing Paris with John. No, if he were truthful, he would at least admit that he had never thought of anything so frivolous about John. And that was the problem, the key issue that had yet been resolved. He hadn’t thought about things to do with John, things to show John, places to go, no he had always just dragged his Doctor around, crime scenes, murder mysteries, his own death; but never had he truly thought about the joys of spending time just to be with one another. No crime, no mystery, no death. Just the two of them. Exploring each other, exploring themselves, exploring their own personal possibilities.  
And that, well, he was going to just have to figure out a way to fix that err in judgment.


End file.
